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floor, where countless wagons had worn a rutted road among the hills. Directly below, the road dipped down and cut across a creek whose wide banks showed signs of flooding in the past, but today the silty stream looked about a foot and a half deep.
    Trails of powder smoke drifted in the air over the heads of the men on the hillside and curled in sooty tendrils above the wagon and its defenders. A black man rose up to fire at the attackers and immediately ducked down. Shading his eyes against the glare, Red Hair also made out two women behind the wagon. The three were pinned down and obviously in need of help. He took a moment to study the situation and to catch his breath.
    Two of the men on the hillside wore dusty, colored shirts and faded buckskin leggings. They appeared to be armed with muskets and pistols and to be taking orders from the lone gunman in the scarlet and black serape. A broad-brimmed sombrero hid this man’s features, while the other two were hatless, their long black hair gathered back from their eyes by strips of cloth. Even as Red Hair was appraising the situation, the men on the hillside loosed another volley at their intended victims behind the wagon. Chips of wood exploded from the lid of the coffin lying on the wagon bed. A woman with blond hair began to scream at the gunmen to leave her poor husband alone. Her pitiful voice carried up the hillside, and her sobbing lingered long after the gunshots had faded.
    Red Hair cautiously studied the rubble-strewn path that would take him right behind the Comanches and the man in the serape. The path ended roughly thirty-five feet from the gunmen and just a couple of yards above them. Red Hair assessed his chances. For one final fleeting instant he considered turning his back on the wagon and the people in the creek who were in such a desperate predicament. But somehow he could not bring himself to walk away. They needed help, and he was elected.
    “So be it,” he muttered, and moved shakily toward the path. The going looked simple enough, but Red Hair hadn’t counted on the lingering effects of his wounds. The ground suddenly began to spin and grow spongy as he set foot on the path. The head wound he had suffered—how long ago, he could not remember—and the hunger gnawing at his belly had taken their toll. Yet he managed to will the world into place and steady himself on his feet. For one horrid moment the ridge seemed to writhe like a snake. Then it ceased, and Red Hair continued down the path.
    “Nothing to it,” he said through gritted teeth. One step at a time, one after the other, he was careful not to disturb a single stone. He was a man of skill, stealth came naturally to him. Unfortunately, the ridge chose that moment to buck and toss one last time. Red Hair sucked in his breath and tried to suppress the surge of nausea that swept over him. He struggled to keep his balance and ride out the dizziness. All of a sudden his boot heels slid in the rubble and his legs went in two directions at once. He was falling, sliding, bruising his shoulder and rolling over and over, then onto his backside. He started a small avalanche of gray rocks and chunks of hard-packed clay. The noise of his arrival not only halted the fight below, but caused every eye to turn in his direction as the wounded man tumbled down the path.
    Down behind the wagon, Zion had finished reloading, and watched with mouth agape as this stranger joined the fray. “Who in the hell …” he muttered. For a moment he thought it was Carlos returning to help those he had abandoned, but he changed his mind after catching a glimpse of the man’s red hair. Well, whether friend or foe, the fellow sure knew how to make an entrance. Too bad it appeared to be his exit as well. Of course, this new arrival might be some renegade come to join his compadres on the slope. The segundo took up his rifled musket and sighted on the falling man. Why take chances? Perhaps it was best to put a bullet in him